


Never Let You Go

by Moonlight_Shining



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, F/F, F/M, Gen, Internalized Homophobia, Post-Canon, Self-Hatred, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2018-09-15 06:32:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 18,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9223241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonlight_Shining/pseuds/Moonlight_Shining
Summary: In 1899, Sarah O'Brien meets Cora Crawley for the first time. She abandons her 23 years later under mysterious circumstances. As their paths cross again, Cora is determined not to let go. Chronicle of a two-decade long relationship, a four-year separation and a difficult reunion.





	1. Chapter 1

**1904**

Sarah O’Brien had been working at Downton Abbey for a little over five years when she snatched the position of lady’s maid to the Countess of Grantham through sheer audacity. She had been attending to the earl’s two eldest daughters for a while, and she was particularly anxious to get away from Lady Mary Crawley, a spoilt brat who at the ripe age of thirteen fancied herself mistress of the house.

When Sarah heard that her Ladyship’s current maid – a strange breed she had brought with her from America – was suddenly, most inexplicably, leaving Downton to return to the United States, she was confident that several years of experience as head housemaid as well as Lady Grantham’s good opinion made her the obvious candidate to her succession. However, to her utmost surprise, she was told that she would simply be filling in until the countess had found a permanent replacement. Lady Grantham had an appointment in a week with what was, according to the housekeeper, a promising candidate...

When Sarah announced that she wanted to apply for the job, she was met with a disapproving frown, and when she asked if she had somehow fallen into disfavour with her Ladyship, Mrs Hughes answered her that it hardly mattered since she, in her quality as housekeeper, wouldn’t put Sarah’s name forward. She claimed that she didn’t believe her to be mature enough for the position, but Sarah knew better than to take her words at face value. The truth of the matter was that Mrs Hughes had never approved of her tongue-in-cheek comments and unwillingness to let anyone trample over her, and she was now paying the price for her so-called lack of discipline.

Sarah had never really considered the possibility of bloody Hughes actively trying to hamper her climb up the ladder. She had got promoted to head housemaid shortly after her arrival and had spent the next few years biding her time, making sure she excelled in anything she did, planting the seeds for her next big move. Now she realized that she may have to kiss any hope of a career at Downton goodbye, and it was a bitter pill to swallow.

Once again, Sarah found herself thinking of what might have been. If she hadn’t been born to poor farmers from Lancashire, if she hadn’t been the eldest child of six siblings... She knew that she had always been destined to be a servant, but had she been given a choice, she would have tried her luck as a dressmaker. It might not have made her any richer, but it was her dream job, and a secret which she had never shared with anyone. Not with her friends, because she had never been the type to make friends anyway. And not with her family, because they wouldn’t have understood. She carried so much responsibility on her shoulders, and in the end neither her time nor her money belonged to her.

Ironically, it was while working as a housemaid that she had perfected her sewing and dressmaking skills. There was much to be learnt from watching and carefully buttering up a lady’s maid...

All Sarah could realistically hope for was serving wealthy women for the rest of her life. If she was lucky enough, the ladies would be gifted with a good sense of fashion and would recognise the true value of her work. Obviously, it would be nothing like running her own shop, but it might be the nearest she would ever come to fulfilling her dream, and Sarah was bent on making it happen. Now, thanks to Mrs Hughes, even that consolation prize was being denied her.

There was another, untold part of the story which made the housekeeper’s flat refusal harder to swallow still. Indeed, Sarah could have started looking for better opportunities elsewhere and left Downton Abbey. Even Mrs Hughes would be forced to give her an excellent reference if it came down to it. But she didn’t want to leave. While she really was ambitious – too much for her own good in Elsie Hughes’ opinion – her motivations for wanting to become Lady Grantham's personal maid went far beyond professional interest. The brutal truth was that from the moment Sarah O’Brien had met Cora Crawley, she had been drawn to her like a moth to a flame, and she had been fighting a losing battle against her troubling feelings ever since.

When Sarah had arrived at Downton Abbey, she hadn’t expected much of her new employers. She had hoped that she would be treated decently, without being naive enough to take it for granted. She had been prepared to feel indifference and scorn for the Crawleys. Every last one of them. In the end, Lady Grantham had managed the sad feat of exceeding her expectations all while never coming even close to fulfilling them.

* * *

**1899**

On her second day working as a housemaid at Downton, Sarah chanced upon the Countess of Grantham in the library. She had been sent up to put away a flower vase some stupid sod had left lying around downstairs and, contrary to what the others had assured her, the room was absolutely not vacant. It was early afternoon and the lady of the house was supposed to be changing before going to Ripon. Instead she was doing silly acrobatics on top of a ladder with a heap of books tucked under her arm. Sarah was about to turn around and go back discreetly from where she had come when the countess called out to her.

"One moment.”

So she had seen her after all. Sarah froze, inwardly congratulating herself for managing to draw negative attention to herself right from the outset...

“I don't believe I have ever seen you before,” Lady Grantham said and peeked at her from above her shoulder. “You must be the new maid... What is your name?"

It certainly wasn’t what Sarah had been expecting. What kind of a lady engaged the new housemaid in casual conversation in the library? Was that kind of behaviour standard in America?

"Sarah, Milady," she answered, schooling her face into a polite mask.

She came forward to place the vase back on the table, but didn’t dare leave the room without a dismissal from Lady Grantham. Maybe that rather strange woman actually wanted something of her...

Either way, she certainly didn't appear to be in her element standing on that ladder, clinging tightly with her free hand as she started to climb down from her perch.

"May I help your Ladyship?"

"I'm fine," the countess said right before letting out a small _oops_ as her foot missed the next step. Fortunately, she was a mere few feet from the ground. Sarah reached up instinctively, grabbing her around the waist to secure her as she struggled to regain her footing. The books hit the carpet below with a thump, missing her head by a hair’s breadth. The countess half-tumbled, half-climbed down the last few rungs, releasing an audible sigh of relief when she finally reached the safety of the floor.

Sarah immediately stepped back and crouched down to pick up the books, thankful for a chance to compose herself. She knew that even if she had thought before she had acted, she would still have reached for the countess – after all, she could hardly have stood idly by as Lady Grantham crashed on the floor. However, she was also painfully aware of everything she had done in her presence, starting with entering uninvited and culminating in this clumsy rescue mission. Not to mention that Sarah had spoken to her without being addressed first. A proper housemaid was supposed to make herself invisible to her employers and instead she had been standing out like a sore thumb...

When she straightened up, Lady Grantham was standing right before her, delicately dabbing her brow with a silk handkerchief. She put it away and smiled gently as she eased the books out of the maid’s outstretched hands. Sarah’s arms fell slowly back to her side.

She had been shown photographs of the family the day before. Since it wasn’t customary for members of the lower staff to be formally introduced, it had been Sarah’s only chance to get to know who was who and to avoid inadvertently mixing up the master of the house with some passing guest. She remembered that she had thought the young countess rather pretty. Seeing the reality of her now, Sarah realized that she had been wrong. Cora Crawley wasn’t pretty; she was the most beautiful creature Sarah had ever laid eyes on.

Sarah had come to her with wary indifference; she adored her from the second their gazes met. Almost thirty years later, she would still remember the mighty, unadulterated feeling that had gripped her when she had looked up into the eyes of the lovely, dainty American. It was as though she had been catapulted high into heaven and had seen an angel up close. She felt happy and dizzy all at once, her heart fluttering in her chest inexplicably.

“What an adventure! I will be sure to ring next time I need a book from all the way up there. It does not feel very dignified to jump straight into the arms of a housemaid.”

Sarah was paying no attention to Lady Grantham’s friendly chatter. She was too busy listening to the sound of her sweet voice, watching the warm afternoon sunlight glint in her dark hair and etching all of her into her mind as she was in that moment – perfect.  

“Is everything alright?”


	2. Chapter 2

Sarah didn’t have a single opportunity to speak to Lady Grantham again for the next six months, only ever seeing her for the briefest of moments when she was asked to take something up to her room. Somehow she often ended up being the one who brought things to her Ladyship, since none of the other housemaids – who were all younger than she – were too keen on facing the formidable Miss Adams, who considered Lady Grantham’s chambers her own and would shoot any intruder a smouldering glare. Sarah on the other hand couldn’t care less about her – not since she had found out precisely where her Ladyship’s maid disappeared to on her days off, at any rate...

She enjoyed being able to see the Countess of Grantham nearly every week, although being in her presence made her more nervous than she would ever care to admit. Her pulse raced with anticipation whenever she was ordered to go up, and she had to focus so hard to keep her hands from shaking that it was almost miraculous that she managed to walk at all, let alone carry a tray full of china.

Invariably, the moment was almost over before it had even started. Sarah barely had the time to steal a furtive glance at her Ladyship and she was already turning back, without even meeting her gaze, already thinking of the next time she would be allowed to lay eyes on the woman’s beautiful face.

Quite irrationally, Sarah kept hoping that one day Lady Grantham might actually notice her. One day, she would bring her tea in her room, as she had been doing every now and then since she had begun working here, but on that day the countess would actually look up at her and she would smile, that sweet smile she had aimed at her on the day they had met in the library and that Sarah hadn't seen on her lips once ever since.

On the rare occasions when she had to make her Ladyship’s bed on her own, she would daydream about the countess coming back unexpectedly. Of course, Sarah would have to apologise for letting herself be found in her bedroom. However, instead of being angry, Lady Grantham would want to know how she was settling in and she would even remember her name.

* * *

On the day when the head housemaid announced that she would be leaving Downton to work at some house with “better prospects”, there was one person who privately relished the news even more than Miss Adams. Sarah, however, knew better than to smile stupidly for everyone to see.

As the rumour would have it, Lily couldn't bear wasting any more of her precious time here knowing that it would be another ten years before any of the girls got married and needed their own lady’s maid – and, quite obviously, that Miss Adams clung to the countess like a limpet to a rock.

As it was, the poor girl truly didn’t stand a chance. She might have reconsidered, however, if she had been even remotely as well-informed about her rival's private affairs as Sarah was.

Sarah looked at Nancy Adams’ smirk, thinking that she who laughed last laughed longest. How stupid the lady's maid was to believe she was untouchable when she had for all practical purposes forfeited her position months ago, at the exact moment when Sarah's gaze had landed on the white envelope sticking carelessly out of her pocket. It had been most satisfying to witness her poorly-hidden fear after her love letter had vanished, knowing that she now had the power to get rid of her in the shake of a lamb's tail.

Sarah had discovered Miss Adams' dirty little secret a mere three weeks after she had begun to work at Downton, and the dream of becoming Cora Crawley's lady's maid, which had taken root in her mind right after their first meeting, had immediately gone from a distant, shapeless hope to a very real possibility. Of course, Sarah would need to be next in line when she used her knowledge to push Adams out, and she had been wondering how long it would take for her to help Lily – cumbersome but none the wiser – to understand that she had hit a brick wall and that it would be in her best interests to resign and kindly get out of Sarah's way.

Now, as she sat at breakfast, looking between the two women, Sarah thought about the long way ahead of her – while she may have taken a step closer to her goal, she would still have to wait for years, be patient and prove herself as a head housemaid. She prayed that nothing unfortunate happened to her or to the puppet who kept her seat warm...

* * *

Practicalities of Sarah's daily life didn't change much in the wake of being fast-tracked to head housemaid. At first it even seemed like she had earned herself nothing but the privileges of being personally ordered about by that annoying housekeeper and bossing around the lower-ranking maids in turn. Still, Sarah's dad was very happy with her new situation – the O'Brien family could certainly use the extra money that came their way – and so was Sarah herself... albeit for different reasons altogether.

Every other Thursday for the last six months, she had watched with envy as her Ladyship's maid spent her entire day off God-only-knew-where while Lily was left to cover for her... Now, the mere idea of being the one to spend that much time near Lady Grantham nearly made Sarah's heart spring out of her chest.

She was incredibly nervous on the first day it happened, plagued by irrational fears which had nothing to do whatsoever with Hughes and Adams pestering her with unnecessary advice and warnings. Sarah knew that she was perfectly capable of handling a lady's dressing and undressing, thank you very much. She was no junior housemaid; she had often taken care of the occasional guest who didn’t have a maid at her two previous houses and without some haughty lady's maid first laying out the clothes for her too. She was an expert at getting things done, coolly and efficiently; she was impeccably polite and reserved, and she had never had to worry about forgetting her place, if only because it wasn't in her nature to be overly warm and familiar.

That was precisely what worried her so much now.

The flawless professionalism on which she used to pride herself suddenly appeared to her like an ugly fault. It was one thing to dress some faceless stranger who expected just that – getting as perfectly elegant as fast as possible – or even, as Sarah was supposed to do, to act as an acceptable substitute for a lady's personal maid. Getting in the lady's good graces was something else entirely. Sarah was acutely aware of how crucial those few hours every other Thursday would be. They were her long-awaited chance to prove herself, to gain her Ladyship's trust, to make her appreciate her. The problem was that she had absolutely no idea of how she was supposed to go about making herself likeable. She had seen enough of Lady Grantham to realise that the two of them were as alike as water and fire. What if the countess took an instant dislike to her? What if she dismissed her as cold and dull? 

Sarah could see Mrs Hughes glancing at her from the corner of her eye as she escorted her down the gallery toward her Ladyship's bedroom. Thank God it was too late for any last minute recommendations, because Sarah would have bet her month's wages that the housekeeper had them in store by the dozen. Mrs Hughes paused right before knocking, eying her critically. It was all Sarah could do to refrain from sighing in exasperation as the white cap on top of her head was straightened up none too gently. The one bright side to all that fussing was that it irked her just enough to keep her from focusing fully on what awaited her beyond that door.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The views and opinions expressed in this chapter, and in this story as a whole, are solely those of the respective characters and do not necessarily reflect the views of Moonlight_Shining. In plain language: O'Brien's bitching is O'Brien's bitching, and Violet's intolerance and crass ignorance of other cultures are hers only.

As simple as it may have seemed at first glance, different ladies actually had, in Sarah’s experience, very different expectations when it came to getting dressed – some of the women she had served would want to play more or less of an active part in the process, putting on their jewellery, brushing their hair, or even fastening the occasional reachable button; others preferred to be waited on hand, foot, and finger and couldn’t be bothered to put on their drawers and chemise themselves. Lady Grantham obviously belonged to the latter category.

Seeing her standing around in her white nightgown waiting to be undressed had Sarah wonder if the countess really was as clumsy as she had seemed to be when they had first met. She was in any case every bit as kind as Sarah remembered, and despite the knot of nerves in her stomach, she couldn’t help but feel a gentle warmth envelop her in the wake of Lady Grantham’s reassuring words and friendly smiles. She had felt both happy and anxious when Mrs Hughes had left the room, shooting her one last, fully unwarranted warning glance, and her Ladyship had risen from her seat at the dressing table to go stand before the cheval glass.

Sarah’s fingers trembled slightly as she grabbed the edge of the silken garment. The countess instinctively raised her arms and she pulled it over her head, leaving her completely nude before her.

It took all of her willpower and professionalism not to stare, and she hastily turned aside to reach for the bloomers that lay on the bench at the foot of the bed. Sarah had only caught a fleeting glimpse of her nakedness before she had dutifully averted her gaze, but it had been enough to steal her breath away.

With her impossibly long legs and tiny waist, Cora Crawley was all slenderness and elegant lines. Her body was flawless, the pale skin of her breasts and stomach looking so incredibly soft to the touch. Add to that her icy blue eyes, shiny dark locks and finely chiselled features, and she truly was the most perfect creature Sarah had ever seen. She felt privileged to be allowed to see her when she was so exposed, at her purest, without any artifice and yet so beautiful that Sarah had to blink back the tears welling up in her eyes.

Sarah came back to her four times in the course of that day, wrapping her in layers of cloths which she would then peel off mere hours later, lacing and unlacing until time became a blur of cotton and linen, muslin and satin, mingling with the texture of the woman’s skin under Sarah’s fingertips, the delicate scent of her perfume, the velvety sound of her voice, and the feel of Sarah’s fingers sliding through her silky hair.  

She enjoyed the evening dressing most of all, knowing that dinner was the time for the most luxurious fabrics, the most elaborate hairstyles. Once she was done, Sarah watched as Lady Grantham, clad in burgundy satin with black embroidery, inspected her reflection in the mirror. The countess turned this way and that, considering herself from every angle, before spinning around and flashing her a radiant smile.

* * *

**1902**

As time passed, Sarah got acquainted with a much less pleasant part of her duties.

One late summer morning, Mrs Hughes had her sent up during one of her daily meetings with the Countess of Grantham... Even her Ladyship’s smile and the prospect of a pay rise couldn’t stop Sarah’s heart from plummeting in her chest when she was told that the eldest daughter, who was about to turn twelve, would now be making use of the services of a proper maid. And the second sister was soon to follow.

Although she had never had much interaction with the Granthams’ offspring, Sarah wasn’t fully inexperienced when it came to children. After all when she was just a girl herself, she had watched over many a bawling, snotty brat. Unfortunately, the grown woman that she was now was painfully aware that asserting her authority by liberally handing out slaps wouldn’t be an option this time around. Based on the little she knew about Lady Mary, it would have been the ideal course of action if she were to retain her sanity.

She put up with the little nuisance’s every whim for months without batting an eyelid, lest she antagonized starry-eyed Lady Grantham, whose gullibility knew no bounds when it came to her eldest child. It was during that time that Sarah finally began to see the countess for who she really was – not perfection made woman like she had believed, but a human being with faults and weaknesses, a mother who did love all of her daughters but still had her favourites. Since she was neither pretty nor endearing, Sarah had never been anyone’s favourite, whether at home, at school or even at work. Therefore, she supposed it must be only natural that she would side with the family’s black sheep.

Quite surprisingly, Sarah had come to realize that she might have coped well enough with – if not enjoyed – her task, had Lady Edith been her only charge. She couldn’t help but pity her, the ugly duckling among her sisters, who wouldn’t have seemed nearly so ugly if she hadn’t been perpetually starved of love and attention. The unassuming young lady faded away into the background next to an older sister who ruled the roost and a little princess who was their mother’s pride and joy.

Sarah eventually ran out of patience on the day when she caught Lady Mary red-handed during a particularly cruel instance of bullying , but, although tempted, she knew better than to lay even a single finger on her. After all, words were powerful enough of a weapon to one who knew how to wield them. Lady Mary had overstepped the mark by a long shot, and Sarah later got her to understand that she would keep her mouth shut only as long as she didn’t mess with her. But not before giving her a nasty fright for good measure.

The incident obviously did nothing to improve their already strained relationship. Lady Mary loathed her in silence and Sarah quietly loathed her back, all the while never neglecting to address her as ‘Milady’. She had prevailed in the end, and that was all that mattered.

* * *

**1904**

Sarah tolerated the situation, just barely, because it was an indispensable step on the way to her ultimate goal; she still needed more time, and many more of the little scraps of confidence she gleaned from the countess during the quiet moments they spent together in the privacy of her rooms every Monday afternoon, as they went over the outfits Sarah intended the girls to wear that week.  

Lady Grantham seemed to have taken a liking to her, and despite all the efforts she had devoted to making it happen, Sarah could scarcely believe her luck. Little by little, she could feel herself relaxing around her mistress, until one day she ended up blurting out a comment whose consequences could have gone far beyond a half-hearted rebuke.

Sarah was distractedly listening to another of her Ladyship’s rants against the Dowager Countess of Grantham, thinly disguised as an anecdote from yesterday night’s dinner, while she folded and piled up the dresses the woman had strewn across her bed and sorted them into two neat piles – one for each of her daughters. The dowager countess was Lady Grantham’s nemesis and also happened to be one of her pet subjects.

According to the unspoken rules governing this type of interaction between lady and maid, Sarah knew perfectly well that she wasn’t expected to contribute to the discussion beyond making a few sympathetic noises, and so she did, until she heard something that almost caused her to drop all of Lady Edith’s clothes on the floor.

The old hag had gone and ridiculed her Ladyship’s choice of attire in her own house and in front of the entire family, casually remarking to Lord Grantham that she wouldn’t be surprised if ‘Cora next went down to dinner wearing a feathered war bonnet’. As it happened, Sarah had been the one to dress her on Sunday evening, serving as a last-minute replacement for Miss Adams, who had been taken ill, and she thought that she now understood all too well why Violet Crawley got up the nose of her usually placid daughter-in-law.

“She’s one to talk. With those ghastly bustles of hers...”

Sarah twitched as she suddenly realized that she had thought aloud and nearly bit her tongue in panic. That would teach her to let her guard down in that way.

Lady Grantham’s head whipped toward her, her eyes wide in shock, her mouth slightly agape. She stared at her for a few seconds... then suddenly dissolved into laughter, one her hands coming up in order to try and smother her uncontrollable giggles.

In that moment, Sarah knew that she had waited long enough after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The whole part about Mary bullying her sister is a direct reference to a one-shot that was published years ago on Tumblr. I highly recommend it, not only so you can find out exactly what I had in mind while writing, but also because it is a really nice read: http://sarahobriensupportgroup.tumblr.com/post/30957603447/sarah-is-a-lioness-shameless-fic-promotion


	4. Chapter 4

**1904**

“Is something the matter, Sarah?” Anna Smith asked her at breakfast two days after Miss Adams had been sacked.

She was a sweet little thing, barely eighteen and pretty in a way that gave Sarah a headache. However, she was also intelligent, diligent and respectful all at once, which meant that Sarah couldn’t help but have a healthy dose of esteem for her. She was even willing to answer Anna’s many questions, just as long as they remained strictly professional.

She had noticed that the younger woman was going out of her way to befriend her, but she was wasting her time; Sarah was determined never to let it happen.

They shared a penchant for witty banter – though Anna’s was harmless enough – and an impeccable work ethic, and that was where the similarities between the two of them ended. The young housemaid was the epitome of goodness and wouldn’t dream of advancing her career at the expense of another servant. She would despise Sarah if she had even the faintest idea of how far her would-be mentor was ready to go – how far she had already gone – to overcome any obstacle in her way. And with Mrs Hughes making it a point of honour to rescue any lost sheep from Sarah’s evil clutches, it was only a matter of time before Anna received a detailed account of her superior’s misdeeds – real or perceived.

Anna probably only wanted to milk her for useful tips, anyway. Regardless of her social status, no kind and pretty woman ever looked at Sarah twice unless she needed something from her. Anna was too pretty and too kind, and that made any unnecessary closeness much too dangerous.

“No. Nothing,” Sarah answered flatly.

She didn’t miss the look Mrs Hughes threw in their general direction. The old bat was openly challenging her to speak up about how unfair it was for her to get robbed of the promotion she deserved. Sarah would have enjoyed nothing more than to give her a piece of her mind right there in front of everyone, but she knew that it would amount to signing her own death warrant...

The housekeeper had been looking at her strangely since she had tried to apply for the position the day before. When Mrs Hughes had told her in plain English that she could go whistle for it, Sarah had been quick to assume that her refusal was motivated by pure personal dislike. In hindsight she rather believed that she had made a costly mistake by rushing things. She had been careful not to leave any clue that would allow the disclosure of Adams’ letter to be traced back to her – she had simply seized a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and hidden the damning piece of evidence in one of the drawers in the lady’s maid’s room after she had overheard Mrs Hughes tell Mr Carson about the surprise search she intended to carry out in the female aisle. However, she did remain the one servant most likely to benefit from her dismissal, and Mrs Hughes was far from being stupid, Sarah would grant her that.

It was with a heavy heart that she answered Lady Grantham’s bell minutes later. This would be the first day when she would be allowed to act as a full-fledged lady’s maid, to pick the clothes her lady would be wearing, to style her hair in the latest fashion and make her beauty into a work of art. But now that the moment had come, Sarah could think of nothing but the fact that it would all be taken from her again in a week.

* * *

Lady Grantham’s impromptu trip to London caught Mrs Hughes fully unawares. She obviously hadn’t expected her Ladyship to venture into the capital, where she would be in the limelight, without a proper lady’s maid. Sarah could have almost thumbed her nose at her – bringing her on this trip was not only a token of trust from the countess; it also meant that she would get to spend nearly a whole blessed week away from that pesky housekeeper.

Lady Grantham would be staying with his Lordship’s sister, Lady Rosamund Painswick, and as was the custom in those cases, Sarah would be temporarily integrated in the Painswicks’ household staff. She didn’t really mind. While she didn’t enjoy most people’s company, Sarah still accepted that new acquaintances would occasionally turn into useful connections.

She only saw this little getaway as a chance to take a break from Downton’s oppressive atmosphere. She had wondered if she might manage to sweet-talk the countess into granting her a few hours leave and go wander the streets of London on her own. In the end, what Sarah did obtain went far beyond her rather modest expectations.

She had never intended to bypass Hughes’ authority in the first place. She hadn’t bothered trying since she hadn’t thought that she stood any chance of success. It ended up being a reckless, spur-of-the-moment decision, which Sarah only made when Lady Grantham unwittingly provided her with a golden opportunity.

“My, Sarah, you really do have exquisite taste,” her Ladyship told her on their last evening in London as she sat at the vanity, admiring herself in the ornate mirror. She was wearing the shimmering pink chiffon frock that she had purchased on Sarah’s recommendation at the beginning of their stay and which had been delivered that morning, just in the nick of time.

Sarah allowed herself a small, self-satisfied smirk as she bent down to pick up her lady’s discarded tea gown. However, her satisfaction lasted only as long as Lady Grantham’s own, fleeting smile. The countess let out a sigh as the tips of her fingers brushed her diamond tiara, a slight frown adorning her lovely face.

“I wonder if that Frenchwoman I read about in _The Sketch_ might be able to replicate that hairstyle...”

The countess gently twirled one of her locks between thumb and forefinger.

“It seems to me that it is never quite the same, depending on the maid who dresses my hair. I do so wish I could keep it styled exactly that way...”

Sarah’s grip on her Ladyship’s tea gown had gradually tightened as she spoke and it was all she could do not to let her face betray her jealousy. She was having a hard time finding an appropriate answer, blinded as she was by her hatred for her faceless rival, when the real meaning behind her lady’s words suddenly dawned upon her – she was not showing faith in the candidate’s potential hairdressing talents. Quite the contrary; she was actually afraid that the new lady’s maid might prove a disappointment in that regard.

“It doesn't have to end if you don't want it to.”

Sarah’s voice was as soft and steady as usual, but she could feel her heart thrumming in her chest as she spoke the seemingly trivial words that would set the whole chain of events into motion.

“What do you mean?” Lady Grantham asked, mildly confused, her eyes locking with Sarah’s in the mirror.

She took a deep breath, knowing that there would be no going back now. She was going to say it, and come what may.

“I suppose that what I am trying to say, Milady, is that I could keep on doing your hair exactly the way you like it if you would take me on as your lady’s maid.”

This time, the woman turned around to face her and Sarah instinctively took a step backward, intimidated by her penetrating stare. For a second, she imagined that Lady Grantham was actually able to look past her façade, beyond the courtesies and false modesty, and delve into the depths of her soul, seeing her for who she really was... But she couldn’t have, or surely she would have recoiled in shock.

Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the sharp intensity vanished from her eyes, and Sarah could easily recognize the expression on the face of the woman she was used to reading like a book. She was thinking hard, and Sarah couldn’t help but hope that she was actually considering her proposal and not merely contemplating how harsh of a punishment Sarah’s impudence warranted. The moment seemed to stretch forever as Sarah held her breath and waited for her lady to break the silence.

“Have you already discussed the matter with Mrs Hughes?”

“I have, Milady,” Sarah answered and felt her throat clench painfully at the direction the conversation was taking.

“Then you must be well aware of where she stands...”

The wheels in Sarah’s head were spinning at full speed. She could guess from her Ladyship’s tone and choice of words that the housekeeper had already expressed her reservations. On the surface, this was starting to look more and more like gentle chiding, and yet there was also some genuine questioning in Lady Grantham’s voice. Sarah wasn’t expected to agree to unconditional surrender and grovel for her forgiveness; she was offered a real chance to stand up for herself. It would be up to her now not to squander it.

“With all due respect, Milady, Mrs Hughes was very prompt to label me as unfit for the job when I have been serving your Ladyship for five years to the best of my ability, and I’ve never, to the best of my knowledge, given you any cause for complaint.”

Lady Grantham’s eyebrows rose.

“You do not appear to make much of her authority.”

“That seems to be her opinion as well, Milady, which is why I believe she wanted to teach me a lesson by not supporting my application,” Sarah said, lowering her eyes in faked embarrassment. “I believe she wanted to show me the true value of humility.”

“Any housekeeper expects respect and obedience from her staff. That is the way you are supposed to behave.”

Sarah looked back up into the countess’s eyes, trying to convey remorse that she absolutely did not feel.

“Of course, Milady. I am sorry. I can see now that I have been arrogant, more than once, and I deeply regret it.”

“To be absolutely honest with you, I was the one who raised the possibility of hiring you as my lady’s maid... I was quite amazed when all Mrs Hughes had to say about you was that she didn’t believe you were ready to bear such a responsibility. I do not share her view, but I think I understand better now why she tried to dissuade me from offering you the position.”

Sarah didn’t know what to make of the lady’s answer, which sounded more like she was thinking aloud rather than reacting to her confession. The countess had just admitted to having been at the very least tempted to take her on, but had Sarah’s calculated attempt at honesty actually ruined everything? She didn’t even dare ask for clarifications, lest she inadvertently dug her own grave.

“And yet...” her Ladyship resumed. “I remain convinced that you are just the woman I have been looking for. Ladies’ maids answer directly to their employer, not to the housekeeper, and you never failed to show me the respect you owe me. I can tell from experience that your skills are more than satisfactory, and I already know that we will get along splendidly.”

Lady Grantham paused for a second, as if gathering her thoughts, and her entire demeanour suddenly changed; she cracked a faint, sheepish smile, looking up at Sarah from beneath her lashes almost shyly.

“And I can't think of better arms to catch me when I slip from ladders.”

Sarah’s jaw dropped as she was momentarily distracted by the revelation, innocent as it was, that the countess did remember about the meeting that meant so much to her.  

“This is highly unorthodox, but I really don’t see the point in dragging the whole affair any longer... The position is yours if you want it.”

Lady Grantham looked at her expectantly, and Sarah struggled to get a grip on the whirlwind of thoughts in her mind. She felt happier than she had felt in a very long time. She had finally achieved her goal, and she could hardly believe that it had been so hard and yet so easy in the end.  

“Unless you actually require some time to think about it...?”

Sarah was given a choice, and staring deep into the lady’s enthralling blue eyes, without a second of hesitation, she made the wrong one.


	5. Chapter 5

Mrs Hughes had been right to stand in Sarah’s way, even if it had been for all the wrong reasons. Striving to become her Ladyship’s maid really had been a terrible idea.

Sarah had spent years living in a dream, letting her lady’s voice lull her to sweet, open-eyed sleep as she fantasized about an idealized future miles away from reality.

Her second week as Lady Grantham’s new personal maid was a rude awakening. 

Lady Sybil had woken up in the dead of night running a high fever and since she showed no sign of improvement as the hours passed, Sarah was sent to rouse the countess much earlier than usual. It was the beginning of spring, and the sun was already shining by the time she stood before her door. She knocked sharply and wasn’t surprised when she received no answer from her mistress. Still, Sarah did wait a few seconds before coming in – if only for the sake of established procedures – and thank God that she had, because the sight that greeted her eyes upon entering had her look away in embarrassment.

The rumour long had it that the earl and countess shared a bed nearly every night, without any regard to propriety whatsoever, but Sarah had yet to witness it with her own two eyes, and if given the choice, she would have liked the situation to remain precisely as it was.

There could be no mistaking what they had been doing when she had knocked on Lady Grantham’s door – the sheets were in disarray, both spouses sitting up awkwardly; most of the buttons on his Lordship’s pyjama top were undone, one of his hands holding the garment shut instead; her Ladyship was clutching the bedspread to her chest protectively.

Sarah stubbornly stared at the cream silk of Lady Grantham’s nightgown, which lay on the carpet at her feet, but she couldn’t block out the sound of their gasping for breath.

“Lady Sybil isn’t well. Mrs Hughes and Nanny Cooper are preparing to send for the doctor. They need your approval,” Sarah said dully, telegraphically, and left the room without waiting for their instructions, closing the door behind her.

* * *

For days on end, Sarah could think of nothing but what had happened that morning. Of course, Lady Grantham had immediately tried to downplay the incident, saying that they should put behind them an ‘unfortunate turn of events that was equally as mortifying to all the parties involved’, but Sarah simply couldn’t help replaying the scene over and over in her head.

The mere thought of Lady Grantham and her husband in bed together turned her stomach, and yet she wouldn’t stop picturing the countess in her mind, just as she had looked when Sarah had stumbled upon them – the wild curls of dark hair that had escaped from her loose braid, her glowing cheeks and shining eyes, her lips reddened and swollen from his kisses...

She was fascinated and repelled all at once.

The realization finally dawned on her as she lay in bed one night, eyes wide open in the darkness, and she felt the walls of denial she had built to protect her heart crumble to dust all around her... The shameful truth was that she had enjoyed seeing Lady Grantham as she had, breathless and flushed with her desire. Only she wished it had been her who had put the colour in those cheeks, and not his Lordship.

Sarah had been utterly obsessed with that woman’s smile ever since it had been aimed at her; the sound of her delicate laugh and her soft inflexions would float into her mind at the most unexpected of times; she had seen her naked and felt almost overwhelmed by the sheer beauty of her body; she needed to be as close to her as humanly possible. And yet it had taken no less than that for Sarah to finally realize the true nature of the feelings she had for her mistress, for her to put a name on the irresistible pull she felt towards her. Not ambition, not admiration, not even selfless devotion as she would have liked to believe, but the most unnatural kind of yearning – a selfish, all-consuming love that wanted Cora Crawley to be hers and hers alone.

The very idea of that love horrified her. How could she have allowed herself to fall at first sight for a complete stranger? (Sarah knew that she had, that remote day in the library. She could have pinpointed the exact moment when it had happened.) How could she have let herself fall for her, a _woman_ , some vapid American heiress whose fortune could have bought Sarah’s entire village, the wife of an earl and a dutiful mother who would never even dream of understanding her senseless feelings, least of all of reciprocating them?

The very manner of the falling in love was enough to make her sob inwardly. She had been minding her own business. She had done nothing wrong by simply walking into a room to rearrange some flowers, and yet she was being cruelly punished. Distantly, Sarah wondered if the love was divine retribution for all the sins she had committed in her life. After all, she had never been a very kind person.

* * *

Their relationship was doomed from the beginning. Sarah had never been the tender-hearted kind to start with, but her love and frustration changed her for the worse. As she had come to work at Downton years ago, she used to be quite stoic. While she had always rued being forced into service, she had accepted that this would be her lot in life and that she had better make the most of it. When she had met Lady Grantham however, the seeds of something ruinous had been sown deep inside her. As they finally sprouted, Sarah began to hate everything and everyone – herself for being a stupid, lovesick idiot; God for making her the deviant that she was; her place in society, which kept Lady Grantham from ever seeing her as more than a means to an end; the rest of them happy-go-lucky fools who surrounded her day and night; and worst of all, Lady Grantham herself, who would never know of the storm she had unleashed within her heart.

The nicer she was, the more Sarah resented her. But she would still play along, not only because it was what was expected of her anyway, but also because she desperately craved the affection, regardless of the form it took. She lived for the woman’s smiles and the rare, treasured touch of her hand on her shoulder and forearm.

The problem was that she always hungered for much more and the lady’s all American familiarity was like salt in an open wound. There was no friendship between them, not by any stretch of the imagination and no matter what Cora – for Sarah had taken to calling her by her Christian name in her head – liked to pretend. One moment she would be warm as a cup of tea, all kittenish smiles and whispered secrets, the next she would be aloof and distant and Sarah would know this was her cue to either leave the room or keep as low a profile as possible.

In her darkest hours, Sarah would stoop to believe that maybe, just maybe, Cora had figured it out somehow and that she was secretly laughing at her maid’s eagerness, that she was actually a devil disguised as an angel. Her bitterness grew with every passing day of the next ten years. But as much as she wanted to get away from Lady Grantham, she couldn’t.

She would denigrate her constantly, and later Thomas Barrow would ask her why she didn’t leave if she hated the bloody cow so much, and she would always answer that she couldn’t risk having Lady Grantham upset and badmouthing her. Good reputation was everything to a servant and all the more so to a lady’s maid.

The truth was that Sarah didn’t believe that Cora was the kind of person who would try and ruin her, even if she left. Lady Grantham could certainly be demanding, flighty and sweetly patronizing in a way that always made Sarah’s stomach turn, but she meant no harm. The truth was that Sarah was the one who _didn’t_ _want_ to leave, even though she was in agony over being so close to the woman she could never have. She was as addicted to Cora as a drunkard to alcohol, and while the love and hatred inside her had blended so that she could hardly tell where one ended and the other started, the mere thought of leaving her side threatened to make her collapse. She simply couldn’t see her future away from her mistress. Until that fateful day...


	6. Chapter 6

**1914**

Sarah was the first to know about her Ladyship’s pregnancy. Both she and Cora had noticed how she hadn’t bled for six months now and neither had commented on it. Sarah knew from the melancholic look on her lady’s face that she must have realized her last hope of producing an heir for the estate was slipping away from her. She had not been pregnant in twenty years, but now the moment was nearing when she would have to tell her husband that they had finally run out of time.

It all changed when Cora had morning sickness two days in a row.

“Milady... do you need a doctor?” Sarah asked and wondered at Cora’s strange attitude.

The countess had a faraway look in her eyes, as though she was thinking hard about something. Sarah watched as her long, pale fingers came to rest on her flat stomach, almost clutching it, and she suddenly stared down at it as though she could scarcely believe it was there in the first place.

“I’ve felt the same before, O’Brien,” she said, looking up at Sarah. Her eyes were sparkling in excitement. “I can hardly believe it, but I’ve felt the exact same before. Thrice. Please send for Dr Clarkson.”

* * *

Lady Grantham’s pregnancy made her as anxious as it made her happy.

“What if it’s not a boy?” she told Sarah. “His Lordship will be so disappointed.”

Sarah felt a stab of pity, not for Lord Grantham or even her mistress but for the potential ‘disappointment’ – a baby who wasn’t even born yet but who must shoulder so much responsibility already. She hoped it would be a boy for its own sake.

It was also a time of anxiety for Sarah. The last of the girls was about ten when she had started working as Cora’s lady’s maid, which meant that she had never seen her through a pregnancy before, and she was especially careful not to do anything wrong, fussing over the countess like never before. And Lady Grantham seemed to enjoy the attention thoroughly.

“You’re so good to me, O’Brien,” she told her once. But apparently, Sarah mustn’t have been good enough for her, because the very next day she heard her toying with the idea of sacking her. She didn't want to believe it at first. Surely, Cora's question must have been purely rhetorical, a bit of banter to prepare his Lordship for the flat refusal that would have inevitably followed. And if Sarah hadn't interrupted them, she would have known for sure. Unfortunately she had. Stupid her. And the doubt was nagging at her.

The more she thought about it, the less likely it seemed that the countess had been about to stand up for her in front of her darling husband. The two of them were deeply in love with each other, madly, sickeningly so, and Sarah couldn't see Cora deny him a favour if he wheedled it out of her. She was suddenly reminded of the incident from two years ago, the one and only time she had quarrelled with her mistress. Sarah remembered the steely determination in Lady Grantham's eyes, how she had fought to salvage what was left of her battered pride, and how she had ended up surrendering completely in the face of Cora's cold fury. For all her defiance, Sarah had got scared when she had suddenly realized that her future at Downton hung by a thread. And if Lady Grantham had been ready to give her notice when she had merely spoken out of turn, no doubt she would be more than willing to get rid of her over something as serious as setting a fellow servant up for a theft.

A few days later, Thomas confirmed her worst fears and she was left reeling in the wake of the revelation – Lady Grantham was about to send her away, and worst of all, she didn’t even respect her enough to discuss the matter face to face with her. Years of desperation reached a paroxysm, and she all but sleepwalked through the next week, seeing no point in searching for a new job, because in the end she only lived to serve Cora, and if Cora didn't want her anymore, then she had nothing to live for.

Things always come in three. For Sarah, the last glimmer of hope finally faded away when she heard her Ladyship talk about her replacement with the dowager countess. Hearing the words come out of her mouth made the betrayal feel so much more real.

She probably wouldn’t have hurt more if Cora had thrust a cold metal blade into her heart. How ungrateful the countess really was. How heartless. In that moment, Sarah knew that the small voice in the back of her head that had been repeating her for years that she was nothing at all to Cora had actually been right all along. She thought about how hard she had worked to make herself seemingly indispensable to her mistress... Most of all, she remembered those treasured moments when merely seeing Cora happy and knowing that _she_ was the cause had been nearly enough. Those moments had been priceless, like small nuggets of true happiness in her otherwise long and miserable days. In those moments, Sarah had even allowed herself to believe that there really was some good in her after all, that she could actually be selfless.  

A fat lot of good all of that sentimental nonsense had done her in the end.

She didn’t want to be that Sarah anymore, that foolish girl – woman – who was completely besotted with a bloody countess, who looked after that little bugger of a footman just because he reminded her of her third brother, who let some goody two-shoes of a housemaid get away with defying her time after time because she was cute of all things... She didn’t want to love anymore; it hurt too much.

Fifteen years ago, when she had stumbled upon Cora Crawley in Downton Abbey’s library, something had taken root within Sarah – something that was both beautiful and painful, like a wild rosebush that bloomed with every one of Cora’s smiles and ruthlessly scraped her heart. Now that the flowers had withered, there remained only the thorns. This, her hatred, cost the baby its life. There was so much hope resting on that baby, and Sarah killed him.

* * *

“Oops! Sorry…”

Cora had just dropped the soap on the floor. It felt like for the past ten years, all Sarah had been doing was pick up a variety of objects that somehow found their way out of her delicate hands. That bloody woman was weak right to her fingertips.

Just how clumsy could you get? Sarah wondered, and wished she could have yelled at her for being so careless. _Soap_ _was_ _slippery_ , what was it about that simple fact that Lady Grantham still failed to grasp?

Of course, carelessness didn’t matter one bit, not when you had an appointed slave to clean up after you. Sarah wished she could have told her mistress to get her lazy arse out of the bath and pick up the bar of soap herself. But Cora never did anything for herself. Never. Not if there was someone else to do it for her. And that someone else happened to be Sarah. For the time being.

The thought had always been mildly frustrating, even at the best of times, but now that she had seen the light, it was simply unbearable. The countess didn’t even regard her as a real person, a living, breathing human who was capable of feeling love and hurt... and hate. She had only ever seen her as an extension of herself. A hand or an arm that could be traded at any time for a more efficient, brand-new one. A useless limb that was about to be hacked off.

Sarah wished she could have run out and slammed the door. The question about her perfect Parisian replacement, asked with such cruel levity, rang in her ears as she walked calmly over to the other side of the bath and crouched down to pick up the soap, obeying the unspoken command of the liar who claimed to be her friend. Her Ladyship lounged in her bath like a queen, as warm and comfortable as could be, while the brambles in Sarah’s chest were spreading and growing, hugging her heart in their prickly, poisonous embrace.

The bar of soap had split in two. Sarah glanced down at her own hand, wrapped around the first half, then looked away, suddenly knowing that she wasn’t going to reach for the second one. Cora enjoyed hurting her; she was going to enjoy hurting Cora.

Sarah straightened up and handed her the soap.

“The other half is under the bath…” she lied.

She was painfully aware of how Cora hardly spared her a glance before she took it, uttering a distracted thank you. When their fingers brushed for the briefest of moments, Sarah wondered how Lady Grantham could not feel the fury drifting from her, conducting through her skin like electricity. The thorns were tearing into her heart so hard that they threatened to rip it apart.

Let her slip. Let her slip and fall. Let her adorn that lovely porcelain skin of hers with a bruise or two.

Why should Sarah care? Cora certainly didn’t. She did not love her, and she didn’t even like her. Cora Crawley couldn’t care less about honesty or so-called friendship. All she had ever done was to order Sarah about and lull her with her honeyed, empty words until she could stab her in the back.

She nudged the soap with her foot, making it slide a few inches so that it reached the area where years of going through the same daily ritual told her Cora’s feet would land upon stepping out.

“I’ll just go and sort out your clothes, Milady.”

Lady Grantham was nearly finished and this time her devoted lady’s maid would not be there to narrowly catch her if she chanced to fall...


	7. Chapter 7

Sarah had already turned around; she was already taking her first step back toward the connecting door, was already asking her mistress, inwardly begging her, to wait when she heard the soft splash of water in the bath. And then the scream. Her heart sank in her chest in time with the unmistakable thud of a body hitting the floor. Too late. Blood drummed in her ears, and for a couple of seconds – the longest two seconds in her life – she remained rooted to the spot, unable to move, unable to think. Too late. Then she rushed into the bathroom as fast as her legs would carry her, nearly tripping over herself in her haste to get to Cora.

Her guilty heart nearly stopped at the sight of the countess, lying on the floor next to the bath and sobbing as she clutched at her stomach protectively.

Deep down, Sarah instantly knew with unshakable certainty that the worst had just happened, but her whole being rebelled against the unbearable truth, clinging desperately to the hope that nothing was amiss and that Lady Grantham would be perfectly fine just as soon as she had gotten over the shock. She had to be. They _both_ had to be. After all, it wasn’t like Cora had tumbled down the stairs. Surely, the fall couldn’t have been as terrible as it had sounded. Babies didn’t die that easily while in the safety of their mothers' wombs now. Did they? What in God’s name had possessed her to do something so stupid, so nasty, something so... life-threatening?

Sarah was at Cora’s side in a second, kneeling down on the cold, soaked floor and gently shaking her shoulder.

“Milady, how are you feeling? Are you in pain?”

She heard the words come out of her mouth as if it were someone else speaking. How could she sound so cool and composed when inside she was falling apart? Her eyes frantically scanned Cora’s naked body, searching for any injury, any odd angle of her lithe limbs. She couldn’t see very well with the countess curled in on herself like this.

“Can you move?”

Sarah couldn’t suppress a sigh of relief when Lady Grantham turned her head to look at her, her eyes shockingly lucid despite her tears. There was so much hurt in that look, and so much candid trust that Sarah felt her thorny heart break to pieces.

Cora nodded wordlessly and reached for her like a helpless child, wincing in pain as more tears rolled down her cheeks. Sarah helped her up and, grabbing her upper arms, attempted to steer her toward the chair by the window. She resisted.

“Milady?”

For a moment, the countess merely stood before her, eyes closed as she drew in a shaky breath. Then she slowly shook her head, looking back at her with glistening eyes and wiping her wet cheeks with the back of her hand in a distinctly unladylike gesture. 

“I’m fine, O’Brien. I slipped on something, I think... I fell forward. I think… my arm took the brunt of the fall...”

Sarah immediately released her grasp, mortified at the thought of unintentionally hurting Cora. Of hurting her _even more_ , the voice in her head mercilessly corrected. Why should Sarah even trouble herself over something so trivial after the terrible, very deliberate harm she had just caused her mistress?

Lady Grantham was shivering in the cool air. Sarah snatched her towel from the back of the chair, wrapping it over her shoulders with as delicate a gesture as she could manage. Gooseflesh had broken over Cora’s skin, but that was not what caught Sarah's attention as she looked at her wet body…

She must have landed hard on her right side.

The skin on her thigh and stomach was an angry shade of red, with the sharp peak of her hipbone standing out even more with how dark it was. Even as Sarah looked, she could have sworn it was turning purplish under her very eyes.

Then there was also her forearm. Sarah could already tell that the nasty bruise to come would stretch uniformly from wrist to elbow.

The rush of shame felt like she had just been punched in the stomach. Wasn’t this precisely the punishment she had ardently wished upon her a few minutes ago?

_Sarah O’Brien, this is who you are now._

“I slipped,” Lady Grantham repeated uselessly. The sudden faraway look in her eyes was unnerving.

“You should lie down, Milady,” Sarah said, and offered the dazed Cora her arm.

It was at that moment that it all started – the countess flinched and doubled over, grabbing her stomach once again. When she straightened up, she was pale as a sheet.

“I’ll ring and have someone fetch the doctor immediately,” Sarah said and struggled not to give in to the swell of panic that threatened to engulf her.

“Yes, it would be preferable if he were to come right away.”

Sarah had already rung, assisted Cora in drying off, and she had just finished helping her into her drawers when she flinched again. A trickle of blood slowly ran down her thigh, staining the pure white silk.

* * *

The violent spasms that had begun while they were still in the bathroom racked Cora’s body with merciless, tell-tale regularity as she lay on her bed, waiting for Dr Clarkson’s arrival. Sarah, who had seen her own mother suffer through four deliveries and a late miscarriage, already knew that, doctor or not, there would be no saving the child now.

Lady Grantham herself must have been aware of it, because she had started to weep bitterly in between the contractions, fresh tears seeping from her tightly-shut eyes as she begged for God not to take her baby away. Each of her pleas pierced through Sarah like a knife, chipping away at the last of her composure, until she could do nothing but stand helplessly beside the bed, holding Cora’s hand in hers as her own tears slid down her face.

Anna was in the room with them somehow, although Sarah didn’t even remember her coming in, and was going about her business in strained silence, setting a basin full of water on a side table, dropping a pile of towels on the other side of the bed...

Sarah wanted nothing more than to let go of Lady Grantham’s cold, clammy hand and flee, far away from Downton Abbey, away from this nightmare she herself had created, but she couldn’t bring herself to move, even though she felt as if she would die if she stayed here a minute longer. In the end there was nowhere to run when the one thing she really wanted to escape was herself. And so Sarah remained exactly where she was, crying as Cora moaned and writhed in pain. Through the haze in her mind, she could hear herself talk to her mistress as from afar. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she was jabbering. She never did tell her why, but it hardly mattered since she doubted any word she was speaking registered on the broken woman.

When the doctor finally arrived, Sarah instinctively meant to back away, but Lady Grantham’s fingers clenched around hers, hard enough to make her wince, as another endless wave of tension rippled through her body, making her scream in anguish. When it finally ebbed away and she sank back down into the mattress, Cora’s eyes, wide with hurt and terror, locked with Sarah’s in a silent prayer, and all selfish thoughts of retreat instantly vanished. Sarah could not leave her, not when she was like this, not when she knew that had she been sensible enough to pause and think twice before lashing out, none of this would be happening.

Cora’s ordeal went on for hours, and she had long lost the strength to scream by the time Dr Clarkson motioned for Anna to pass him a towel and leaned down between her legs. Her knees were bent, and the sheet they had laid over her thighs to keep up the illusion of modesty blocked Sarah’s view. As he straightened up, the only thing she was able to see was the neat little bundle he had gathered in his hands, but she couldn’t help but picture the tiny being inside, wondering if it still had a pulse. The doctor immediately turned his back on the bed, probably so he could examine it without Lady Grantham seeing, and after a while shook his head. He whispered something to Anna, handing her the baby still wrapped in its towel.

“Lady Grantham”, he started, and Cora’s exhausted eyes fixed on him, “The worst is behind you now. The contractions should gradually wear off over the next hour or so. I’m going to examine you...”

The doctor looked between Sarah and Anna, and he must have been preparing to give them instructions as to how they should tend to the countess when Cora spoke, her voice almost too weak to be heard.

“It was a boy, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” he answered, and Lady Grantham’s breath hitched audibly. “Yes, it was. I am sorry.”

Ever since she had learnt that she was pregnant, Cora had been persuaded that she would give birth to another female, even complaining once that she had ‘only ever been good at making girls’. Sarah assumed that something in the doctor’s attitude had aroused her suspicion – maybe she believed he would have told her right away if it hadn’t been a boy. Obviously he knew that this late pregnancy had been the couple’s last chance to beget a direct heir to the title and estate.

Then she heard Lady Grantham’s low murmur.

“Of course, it was. I could never give him a living son, right Mama...?”

Cora’s eyes closed again briefly, and she drew a shaky breath.

“Let me see him...”

Dr Clarkson looked back at her, visibly taken aback by the request.

“My son... I want to see him,” Cora insisted.

“Lady Grantham, this is somewhat unusual. I’m not really sure that-”

“Just let her see it!”

Sarah’s voice cracked as she snapped at him, and Dr Clarkson gave her a reproachful look. She moved across the room and took the bundle of cloth out of Anna’s unresisting hands, gazing at the floor to avoid meeting the young woman’s sharp eyes. The small weight of the baby in her cupped palms was almost unbearable.

Clarkson was missing the point completely, she could plainly see it... He might have been a specialist of the human body, yet he knew nothing of the workings of his patient’s heart. He hadn’t seen the countess stroke the curve of her belly as it started to round; he hadn’t been there to hear her coo and whisper to it softly when she had thought Sarah wasn’t listening. All this she had done even while believing the baby was a girl. Dr Clarkson didn’t know that, to Cora, the little being maturing inside her had always been much more than a potential earl in the making.


	8. Chapter 8

Sarah remembered the exact moment she was stricken with remorse. Right after she had left the countess alone in the bathroom, she had walked back into the bedroom and headed straight for the chaise longue where Cora’s clothes lay discarded. She remembered looking down at the gown in her hands and feeling its texture under her fingers. It had been in that moment that the thought had hit her and her heart had given a violent lurch – she had been putting the finishing touches to that very dress the night before. Lady Grantham adored it and had requested that she make some adjustments to it as soon as possible. Because it had been a little too tight the last time she had tried it on. Because she was expecting a baby.

Sarah had turned her head and caught sight of her reflection in the mirror above the mantelpiece. She hadn’t recognized that haggard, tormented woman staring back at her.

Now, she couldn’t even bear to meet her own eyes; instead, she looked down at her hands and scrubbed them. She scrubbed again and again until the skin turned bright red, but it was no use; she could still see her lady’s blood on them every time she closed her eyes.

She had completely lost her grip.

It had happened right after she had handed the little bundle of cloth to Cora. The cold, rational part of her, whose chief concern was to make sure she didn’t lose her mind, had demanded she looked away immediately, because she really didn’t want to see the body. She couldn’t bear to look at the innocent life she had taken. And yet Sarah hadn’t. The voice of reason had been drowned out by something louder, something which had compelled her to stare at the baby and to endure every second of a farewell so painful it went beyond anything she could have imagined. Until she couldn’t take it anymore.

She had left Lady Grantham’s bedroom, suddenly and without a word, and headed up to the women’s bathroom...

Her hands had grown numb from the icy water. Sarah turned off the tap, ignoring the sting as sensation rushed back to her fingers.

Once she was back in her room, she took off her dress and carefully checked if for stains but couldn’t spot any on the black fabric. Then she sat on her bed and wanted to cry again, but strangely no tears would come now that she was alone with no one to see her. She just sat there, still as a statue, staring at the white of the walls and seeing nothing.

Anna’s knock on her door, probably hours later – but it might as well have been seconds – jolted her back to reality.

“Miss O’Brien, are you in there?”

“Go away.”

Any other answer would have been misconstrued as an invitation to go in and try to comfort her. Sarah knew Anna all too well; she could hear the concern in her voice, could almost feel the woman’s burning need to reach out to any pained soul, even if it belonged to the last person she should care about. The problem was that Sarah did not want to be comforted. She would grieve for that child if there was even a shred of humanity left in the monster she seemed to have become. She was also much too scared to even consider opening the door. Somehow, Sarah felt as if her crime were written all over her face and a single glance were all it would take for Anna to see right through her.

Fear still twisted her stomach when she finally came down to the servants’ hall for dinner, knowing that not doing so would only make her look suspicious. Thankfully, no one asked her questions but William, and his was harmless enough. In the mean time, everyone had heard about Lady Grantham’s misfortune, and everyone maintained a respectful silence. Until Thomas stuck his oar in, that was... Then again, Sarah saw where he was coming from – had she been blameless, had it been about any of the Crawleys but Cora, she probably wouldn’t have cared much herself.

She kept silent when Mrs Hughes announced that she would bring her Ladyship a tray herself. When she had heard the jingling of the housekeeper’s keys, Sarah had expected a well-earned told off. After all, Mrs Hughes couldn’t have been too pleased with how she had essentially run away from her duty, leaving her and Anna to deal with the mess in her stead. There had been bloodied sheets and towels to dispose of (of course, any housemaid could have done it), but Anna had also laid out a water basin and a couple of washrags – and the task of cleaning the blood and sweat from the countess’s trembling body should have fallen to no one else but Sarah. However, the housekeeper’s face had expressed nothing but sadness as she had slid in her seat opposite her, and there had been no comment on the afternoon’s lapses.

Sarah didn’t react at all when Mrs Hughes tactfully granted her the evening off. But she was grateful anyway. She couldn’t have gone back. In that moment, they couldn’t have made her go back for all the gold in the world. She was a coward who couldn’t stand to look at herself; how could she have looked in the eyes of the mother whose son she had killed?

* * *

She lay awake for hours that night, unable to fall asleep; her mind wouldn’t stop conjuring image after image of the dead baby, with his oversized head and translucent skin. Visions of Cora holding his hands between thumb and forefinger, stroking the ten perfectly formed digits, kissing her son’s tiny face with the eyes that would remain forever closed...

When Sarah finally dozed off, she saw him in her dreams. The boy she had killed. He was her beloved’s spitting image, with pale skin, ebony hair and the same large, clear blue eyes she adored, but there was no warmth in his gaze when it landed on her, and his cheek was cold as ice when Sarah brushed her fingers on it.

Standing at her window looking at the rising sun, Sarah resolved that she would tell the countess the truth first thing in the morning, beg for her forgiveness, and put her fate into her hands, regardless of the consequences. Sarah knew that she would never see her again, because Cora would loathe the very thought of her. She knew that if the word got out, she would never work as a servant again. She knew that she may even end up paying the high price for her confession; if Lord Grantham decided to take her to court, she would have to plead guilty to manslaughter. She knew that she had never, ever, wanted any harm to come to the boy, and, past that initial moment of rage, she had never wanted any harm to come to Cora. However, she also knew that she would never be able to live with the burden of silence.  

* * *

Sarah waited for the bell and braced herself for the disaster to come, but she was never called up. One by one, each member of the family rang for their early morning tea, everyone but the countess, and Sarah remained seated at the long table, drumming her fingers on the wood next to her near-empty plate. She had helped herself to some gooey porridge earlier but found that she couldn’t swallow past the first mouthful.

Anna went back up after a while to help the girls dress for breakfast, and soon Mr Carson was announcing the end of the servants’ meal. Everyone scattered to attend to their various duties; Daisy and Beth came in to clear the crockery... Mrs Hughes was the only one who hadn’t moved, and Sarah met her concerned eyes from across the table.

“Let’s give her another half hour. It is a terrible thing her Ladyship is going through”, the housekeeper said. “She must be exhausted.”    

Time crawled by in near silence as Sarah listened to the ticking of the clock that hung on the wall behind her, a sound she usually never heard above the commotion in the servants’ hall. It might as well have been ticking away the seconds remaining before she had to leave Downton. She was roused from her thoughts when an impatient Mrs Patmore descended on them from the kitchen to inquire about what should become of her Ladyship’s breakfast.

The legs of Sarah’s chair screeched on the stone as she suddenly stood up, prompting Mrs Hughes to ignore the surge of questions from the cook and turn her head towards her instead.

“Be careful not to wake her, Miss O’Brien, if by any chance she’s still sleeping.”

Sarah nodded distractedly, somehow feeling as if this was the last she would ever see of Elsie Hughes. That was highly unlikely however. No matter how things turned out, she would play a part in dealing with the aftermath of Sarah’s horrible revelation. And all the more so if Lady Grantham could no longer stomach the sight of her former maid.

Thomas, on the other hand... For a second, Sarah considered going to him before confronting Cora, but she had no idea where he was. Anyway, that kind of mushy nonsense wasn’t like them at all.

Sarah had already reached the foot of the stairs when the housekeeper’s voice reached her ears.

“Unless you’d rather I take care of her Ladyship today?”

“No,” Sarah answered without turning back. “No, Mrs Hughes. That won’t be necessary.”

_Thank you... but I don’t deserve your kindness._

The answer to that question had been simple – Sarah could not afford to give in, because if she didn’t do it now, she never would, and sooner rather than later the guilt and shame would drive her insane.

Yet in the end, she never confessed her sin. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost forgot about something important: One of the sentences in this chapter isn't fully mine. I borrowed it from a fellow writer, whose work I deeply admire, with only minor alterations. I couldn't have done better myself.
> 
> "I never wanted any harm to come to the child," she says.[...] And when that instant of anger passed, I never wanted any harm to come to you. But it was too late."- Blessed are the Merciful by esteoflorien 
> 
> You should read this wonderful, moving story: http://archiveofourown.org/works/1021901


	9. Chapter 9

Lady Grantham was still in bed when Sarah slipped into her room. The shutters had been left open, and an obstinate sun sneaked its watery rays through the clouds, and every gap in the curtains. Unable to hear the sound of her own footsteps on the carpet, hardly feeling the weight of her hand on the doorknob, Sarah felt like a mere shadow on the wall.

Cora was curled up on her side, facing the far wall with the covers pulled up to her neck; the only visible part of her was her long hair, tied back in a messy ponytail and spilling over her pillow. Despite all appearances, however, she wasn’t sleeping. The door gave the tiniest click as it closed behind Sarah, and the spell was broken.

Cora glanced above her shoulder, rolling over to lie on her back. Her eyes, fully open and bright with unshed tears, stood out in a face that looked all the whiter in its frame of dark hair.

“Pardon me, Milady,” Sarah said. “It’s quite late.”

Cora blinked.

“Yes, of course... Mrs Patmore must think me terribly ungrateful, shunning her food like that.”

She forced a smile, but it flickered like a candle in the wind and blew away. Her usually soft voice was slightly hoarse, either from thirst or from all the screaming she had done the day before.

Old habits die hard. In spite of her reason for being here in the first place, Sarah was fighting down the impulse to ask if she could get her something – milk and honey, perhaps – to soothe her sore throat when somebody knocked on the door she had just closed.

Sarah immediately retreated into the background as the eldest daughter came in and replaced her at Cora’s bedside.

“Good morning, Mama,” Lady Mary said with uncharacteristic gentleness. “Papa sent me to see if you were awake yet. Dr Clarkson will be arriving at ten.”

Cora nodded absently, her eyes already wandering away.

The knot that had taken up residence in Sarah’s stomach tightened a bit further. That was the first she heard of a doctor’s visit. Somebody down the pecking order had obviously made a blunder, and yet she couldn’t find it in herself to care, let alone be angry, because the only thing that mattered to her right now was that this was obviously not a good time to talk. The doctor would come up to see Lady Grantham in half an hour at the very most and she hadn’t eaten anything, hadn’t even had her morning tea yet...

Then again, how could there ever be a good time for what Sarah was planning to do?

She couldn’t see Lady Mary’s face from where she stood, but there was no missing the way she shifted from one foot to the other, in contrast with the usually impeccable posture she would have learnt from her governess.

“You needn’t worry too much,” she carried on. “As he said yesterday, you will be back on your feet fairly quickly. This is a mere follow-up.”

The sadness in the girl’s voice was unmistakable, but she also sounded quite confused, as if she didn’t know what she was supposed to make of Cora’s obvious fragility.

“Yes, of course.”

Sarah couldn’t fault Lady Mary for trying to comfort her mother, but she was wide off the mark. She would have known better than to speak of Cora’s condition as if it were a mere physical inconvenience if she had been there when Cora had asked for her baby, if she had seen the look on her mother’s face...

“I’ll be back to keep you company later.”

“Thank you, dear.”

As soon as Lady Mary was gone, Sarah turned her gaze back to Cora. An uncomfortable silence fell over the room as she instinctively waited for instructions that wouldn’t come. The countess would normally have spoken by now, if only to dismiss her until further notice, but of course there was nothing normal about her that morning.

This wasn’t the lady Sarah used to know, lying in that bed like an empty husk; this was the same woman she had left – though abandoned was closer to the truth, really – yesterday; the defeated, broken stranger who had reared her head after all the fight had been wrenched out of Cora.

There would be no harrowing screams today, no bruising grip on her hand, but her lady’s silence told her everything she needed to know and much more.

“I had such a nice dream,” Lady Grantham said suddenly, and the quiet sound of her voice almost made Sarah jump. “I didn’t want to wake up.”

She was looking straight ahead, at nothing in particular, and certainly not at her maid.

“But I did, and I couldn’t go back to sleep. But still – I was trying to pretend that it was true, that nothing had changed...” She sighed. “Of course, reality always catches up sooner or later, doesn’t it?”

It always did. Sarah knew it better than anyone. And of course, she had been the one to drag the countess back to that bitter place she had been trying hard to escape. As if she hadn’t done enough already.

“I’m terribly sorry, Milady.”

And she was. She had probably never been as sorry about anything in her whole life.

Now would be the time to talk, and get this weight off her chest... And yet, now that the time had come, there seemed to be a thousand things Sarah would sooner tell Cora, things she had no right to say. She wanted to say that she was sorry for leaving her yesterday and that she wouldn’t do it again; she wanted to tell her that _she_ understood that Cora had loved her unborn baby, even if Lady Mary didn’t; she wanted to tell Cora that she had a right to grieve for the child she had lost, even if all the world saw was a missed opportunity.

As pathetic as it seemed, Sarah would have wanted to try and make Cora feel even marginally better, and trampling over whatever remained of her heart seemed like the worst possible way to achieve that.

And yet, confessing was the morally right thing to do, and Sarah desperately wanted to; she longed to rid her guilty conscience of its intolerable burden. It was foolish of her to hope that she could somehow spare Cora anyway. There can be no right time to break the heart of the woman you loved and betrayed, throwing your life away in the bargain.

She was preparing to do just that when Cora turned her doleful eyes on her.

“Thank you.”

Lady Grantham’s silence had been crippling; Cora’s gratitude was worse. The way she looked at Sarah now reminded her of the look in her eyes when she lay on the floor of the bathroom, of the look in her eyes after Sarah had tried to pull her hand away. As if she had nothing left but her.

This wasn’t just a wrong time; it was the worst possible time.

“I’ll be right back with your tray, Milady.”

Cora opened her mouth, but Sarah pretended not to notice. She could well imagine that her Ladyship wasn’t about to ask for an extra slice of bacon. She hadn’t eaten since yesterday’s luncheon, and there was simply no way she could afford to skip another meal.

“I’m sure you must be thirsty. I’ll bring you some water, and tea, and toast too. You’ll need your strength.”

Sarah was already gone before Cora had a chance to answer, amazed at her own audacity.

She must only hold on a little longer. The miscarriage may have played havoc with Cora’s plans, but from what she had heard, it couldn’t be much longer before the countess formally dismissed her. In the mean time, she would be there for Cora. It was the least she could do.

* * *

Sarah had no say in the matter, or Cora would never have attended the garden party. It was much too soon for her to host such an event, too soon for her to be anywhere but resting in the comfort and privacy of her rooms. She hadn’t granted her body and mind the necessary time to heal...

Of course, cancelling at the last minute was unthinkable, but Sarah could at least have persuaded Lady Grantham to stay in bed where she belonged if the whole family hadn’t been irrationally concerned about what their guests – they had invited anybody who was anybody really – might have to say about her condition... Even Cora herself, who had spilled the beans upon seeing the incredulous look on Sarah’s face, obviously hadn’t needed much persuading. In the end, it seemed that nothing mattered as much to the aristocracy as keeping up appearances.

And so Cora’s aching flesh was there, hidden under layers of deceptively pure white, but her thoughts were in a place Sarah dreaded to think of. The grounds were swarming with people, family and acquaintances who would drop by every now and then to have a chat with her, but she looked so lonely in her grief.

“People mustn’t think I’m really ill”, the countess told her when Sarah came to see her, unable to keep away any longer. The wan smile on her lips faded away as her eyes stared off into the distance.

One of her gloved hands was cradling her sore, empty stomach. Sarah had to look away, do something – she wrapped the blanket over Cora’s legs – to distract herself from her own thoughts. “ _But you are”_ , she wanted to answer. “ _You are ill. I made you.”_  

“But are you sure you have everything you need, milady?” she asked instead.

“Dear O’Brien...” Cora said, and reached for her. Her hand slid down Sarah’s sleeve, her thumb drawing circles on the back of Sarah’s hand before her fingers curled around her wrist, squeezing it briefly.

“How sweet you are,” she said. She sounded like she meant every word.

In her eyes, Sarah could see that look again. The look that confused and rattled her, that smashed all her defences and turned her into a helpless thing whose only wish was to love and keep Cora safe at all costs. A look that made no sense in the eyes of a woman who would be giving her the sack any day now.

Sarah averted her gaze and walked away, barely aware of where she was going. She didn’t believe that she could feel any worse than she did then, but she was sadly mistaken.

Of course, she felt sorry for Cora. The countess hadn’t deserved to have such a terrible thing happen to her, even if she was a hypocrite and a snob who held no respect for her servants and plotted in secret to get rid of them. What really mattered to Sarah, however, was the unforgivable sin she had committed. Had it been just a bruise, or even a broken wrist, then she could have forgiven herself. This... was completely different. Sarah may not have been all sweetness and light – a nasty piece of work, some would say – but manslaughter wasn’t something she had ever contemplated adding to her list of misdeeds. And that applied to Cora’s unborn child as well as to anyone else. In the end Sarah’s suffering had everything to do with herself and little to do with Cora Crawley as a person.

Until suddenly it had everything to do with Cora.

Sarah had barely left the shade of the tent when she heard somebody call her name. The Dowager Countess of Grantham materialized out of nowhere, rushing toward her in a flurry of white lace and beige linen. Smiling at her pleasantly, she certainly did not look the part of the bird of ill omen. While appearances have a way of being deceptive, they are sometimes also downright cruel.

It was then, with the dowager countess looking at her benignly, patting her arm in passing, with the August sun warming her back through the black of her dress, with a light summer breeze caressing her face, that Sarah finally saw a fundamental truth. It was then that she finally understood that Cora wasn’t – had never been in fact – the villain in their story; she was.


	10. Chapter 10

**1922**

Sometimes Sarah wondered if all of this was a bad dream she might still wake up from.

She had run away in the grey predawn light, when the house was cold and quiet and the women around her were sleeping the sleep of the just. The parquet had creaked under her feet as she gathered up the last of her meagre possessions; every little noise – the soft rustle of fabric, the drawer she had forgotten to check sliding open and shut – was deafening in her ears. But no one came. As Sarah hurried down the stairs, the only sound apart from the clacking of her heels was of the baby’s distant crying.

She had sneaked out the back door into the courtyard, shivering as an icy blanket of fog swallowed her, and walked down the gravel path that ran around the Abbey, to the front lawn and then away. Before leaving, however, she had taken a moment's pause to look back at the house's darkened façade. Her eyes had swept along the shutters of the first floor as she moved down the gallery in her head, counting doors and windows until she had found the right one. She had mouthed a silent goodbye.

Then Sarah had turned around and walked on, down the path to the first gate, through the second gate, and on to the road leading to Downton. She had pulled her coat tighter around herself as she walked down a road bordered by woods and meadows and fields all belonging to Lord Grantham's tenants. Never before had the single mile from Downton Abbey to the village seemed so long to her as it had that night.

She had seen the break of day out the grimy window of her third-class carriage and, later, countless sunrises over the roofs of Bombay, but somehow it still felt like the world around her was plunged in darkness.

When she had worked at Downton Abbey, Sarah found it difficult to live in the present, focused as she was on whatever threat or opportunity was hidden around the next bend, or the next... But that had been before Lady Flintshire, and before Anna, before she was forced to give up on everyone she had ever cared about. What was there to anticipate now? What was the point of planning if all the future held was a lifetime without her family, without Cora?

The past was the only way out of the present. And so she sank headfirst into memories. She retreated deep into her mind, sleepwalking through life rather than being wide awake to feel the pain. During that time Sarah often thought about the war.

When she did, it was always the same memories – the same visions and noises and smells, the same faces – that surged to the front of her mind. She would remember the jagged hole in Thomas’s hand, surrounded by its mess of bruised flesh and wrinkled skin; William’s painful wheezing, his face the colour of the roses adorning his bedposts; Mr Lang, gripping her hand so hard that her fingers went white and numb...

She would think of the dreaded telegrams that never stopped coming, bringing the horror right to their doorstep. Death and grief had seeped through Downton Abbey’s walls, merely surrounding her at first, until one day a telegram had been addressed to Miss Sarah O’Brien. Then another. Seven years later she still tried her best not to think of her brothers, of lives ruined and heartbreaking scrawls on harmless-looking scraps of paper. They had been good sons, naming her as their next of kin instead of their poor old dad, and so it had fallen to Sarah to break the news to him.

When she thought of them, of all those lads that got sucked into the war’s muddy maw and crushed by its great steel jaws, Sarah didn’t understand. There had been the telegrams, and the bleak letters from home, the visits to Peter before they had sent him back to France to die in a trench, the parade of wounded officers that filled the Abbey’s halls with their moans of pain and their crude laughs, the vague feeling of hunger that had become a constant companion over time... No, when Sarah thought back on the war, she didn’t understand how it was that she could have been happy. And yet the Great War had drawn Sarah O’Brien and Cora Crawley closer than they could ever have imagined. 

* * *

**1914**

Robert never raised his voice. He just looked at Cora the way one might look at a toddler throwing a tantrum. Of course, they are being a nuisance, but you know that they are too young – or in Cora’s case, too much of a woman, irrational, emotional – to control themselves. So you just send them back to their nanny and away from you.

“You’re exhausted,” he said. “You should rest. O’Brien will be up soon.”

Cora stared back at him, swallowing hard against the lump in her throat. She had already discredited herself enough in his eyes by shamelessly begging him not to volunteer – to hell with serving king and country. Bursting into tears right now would only make things worse. She couldn’t bear the idea of him believing she was trying to get her way by making him feel guilty. 

“I’ll say goodnight”, Robert said, although it would be hours before either of them went to bed. Cora, they had determined beforehand, wouldn’t come back down tonight – not after the strain of the garden party – but Robert was only going to the room next door to change. Then he would have dinner with their daughters and enjoy a few quiet moments by his own in the library.

He obviously had no intent of dropping by to see his wife on the way back to his dressing room.

It was her fault. She should never have brought up the war in the first place. Then again, how could they have talked about anything else but the war? About anything else but Matthew. Matthew Crawley would join the army, as befitted a man of his rank, and Cora couldn’t help but feel glad for once in her life that she didn’t have a son.

She had also wondered what would become of the men serving them… Robert had told her about Thomas signing up to the Medical Corps, but what of everyone else? What of William, and Branson? What of their grooms and gardeners?

The question of her husband’s future, however, hadn’t crossed Cora’s mind. It went without saying that he belonged at Downton, by her side, and she hadn’t imagined that he would be ready to throw away this life – their life together – without a second thought.  

Of course, Cora had never understood his passion for the army, which still manifested itself today through his absurd devotion to his crippled former batman. She hadn’t minded too much when Robert’s regiment had been stationed in Gibraltar. She and the girls would come to stay, and she would always find time for a trip to Malaga or Seville, to Cadiz or Cordoba.

She certainly hadn’t enjoyed the South African war, when Sybil was still so small, and Mary would always ask her about her father, and Cora lived in fear of the day when she would have to tell them that their Papa would never come home. As far as she was concerned, it had been a relief when Robert finally retired from the army, alive and in one piece. 

They hadn’t fought, and yet Cora’s heart was heavy with the weight of his judgement, at a time when she needed him more than ever. She thought back on the afternoon and her tears brimmed over. With their hands linked and Robert's fingers warming hers through her glove, Cora had been sure that they could tackle anything life would throw their way.

Now the war had come, and suddenly she found herself alone.

They hadn’t shared a bed since the accident, Dr Clarkson having said that she would heal better and faster if her husband kept his distance for a few weeks. Cora hadn’t argued; the pain was still gnawing at her like a dull knife, and she didn’t know how much longer the bleeding would last. But she had been lonely when the door closed and Robert – he had come to say goodnight every night after her maid had gone – disappeared from her sight.

Not tonight though. There would be no comforting whisper in her ear, no linger of his lips on her cheek or mouth.

She had driven him away. _  
_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Watching parts of season two again had me wonder why the army doesn't want Robert back although he was a professional soldier. So I did a bit of research. And then I discovered that, according to Julian Fellowes, Robert offered his services the day after war broke out. It got me thinking about how Cora would have taken it, and then about their relationship to the army and their life when he was still on active duty. So I did some more research.  
> If you're not bothered by angry historians getting angry about historical inaccuracies in period dramas, check out those articles for a very instructive read:  
> https://enoughofthistomfoolery.wordpress.com/2015/03/01/lord-grantham-too-old-to-fight/  
> https://enoughofthistomfoolery.wordpress.com/2015/06/03/the-bold-grenadier-part-1/  
> https://enoughofthistomfoolery.wordpress.com/2015/06/03/the-bold-grenadier-part-2/


	11. Chapter 11

War was upon them, and its stakes went far beyond the individual fate of any one woman or family, be she a countess and they an influential line of aristocrats.

That was the truth Robert expected Cora to accept.

Her truth was that she had no strength left for selflessness.

She had been fighting for days, putting on a show of bravery for everyone to see, locking the dark thoughts away in a box to be dealt with later, someday when she was ready to face them with dignity, because she had known that she had already used up her allotted share of sympathy, and she had known that she couldn’t afford to make a fuss.

The pain of a fruitless birth, the grief, even the guilt over allowing harm to come to their child... they had all fitted inside the box somehow, because no matter how tough the going, she had never been alone.

But the box was ruined now, and there was no fixing it. It had splintered when she had tried to cram one too many hurt inside. And now the insignificance of her needs and wishes, the revelation that she was nothing in the face of war, of honour and duty, was eating her alive.

Nigh on twenty years had passed, but she was Viscountess Downton all over again and an unhappy young bride... She thought of her husband seeking solace in the army from marriage to a woman he didn’t love, dying, maybe, in his attempt to escape her. Even if Robert lived, Cora didn’t want him to survive German shells and bullets only to know that she had lost him anyway, to his British comrades-in-arms. She needed him to stay and show her that he could still love her even though she had failed him once again in the foremost of her duties.

If her husband was so eager to leave her, of his own free will, then what did that say about the state of their marriage?

She had flung her flimsy arguments at him pell-mell – _War is a young man’s game... Don’t you think it’s time to pass on the torch? The estate needs you..._ None of them had so much as dented his shield of virtue. Of course, they had been hollow, every one of them an excuse that Cora had manufactured on the spot instead of telling the truth - _I love you, I can’t stand the thought of losing you_ – but Robert’s reactions had only confirmed what she had always suspected, that love, her love, could never be enough.

She had stopped trying to reason with him at some point and grabbed his hand just as he stood up. With only the slightest tremble in her voice, she had asked him not to go. He had squeezed her hand back and said that he was sorry.

“How can you?” she had spat, sinking back down into her cushions, and he had only sighed.

The box was damaged beyond repair, and with Robert gone, Cora could see no point in pretending otherwise.

* * *

She was still crying when O’Brien arrived, predictably, with her dinner and couldn’t have stopped if her life depended on it. She must be a pitiful sight, weeping into her palms, lying on the chaise longue just as her husband had left her, like some discarded thing with no will of its own. She was a lady, and O’Brien was her servant, and it was never right for servants to see their mistress in such an undignified state. Cora should have been proud and kept all the tears at bay, to be spilt alone behind drawn curtains and locked doors.

She didn’t feel like she had any reason to be proud, however. Not after what had happened, all in the space of a fortnight. 

Cora listened to O’Brien’s barely audible footsteps as she crossed the room and found herself hoping that she would hurry up and disappear as quickly as she had arrived. While she couldn’t have possibly missed the sound of Cora’s sobs, then at least she wouldn’t get to see her red, puffy eyes. 

She heard the usual clunk of the silver tray being laid on the table by the fireplace, and her stomach lurched as the rich smell of watercress wafted up her nose. It had become part of their daily routine lately, since Cora had neither the energy nor the appetite for an interminable dinner; every night, O’Brien would bring a bowl of some broth or soup and proceed to coax Cora into swallowing a few spoons, even though she couldn’t remember the last time she had been hungry.

Not tonight though. Surely O’Brien couldn’t expect her to eat anything when in such a state. Maybe she would go now, without ever meeting her eyes, and never speak a word of what she had witnessed. That would certainly be the proper thing to do.

Once alone, Cora could keep on crying until she was too exhausted to feel anything anymore. Then she would go to sleep, and maybe tomorrow, things wouldn’t look quite so dim...

Except that Cora didn’t want her to leave.

This woman, she was the same person who had held her hand for hours while she journeyed through her own personal hell. O’Brien had cried for her son just like she had, just like Robert had when he had come to her bedside later; O’Brien had made sure she ate properly and lacked for nothing, showering her with attention until she couldn’t help but feel slightly better, torn between amusement and affection at her maid’s fussing.

It made no sense to hide from O’Brien, so why was it expected of her? Why should Cora hide from someone who had always treated her with nothing but kindness?  Was there even anything left to hide when O’Brien had seen her struggle through the most vulnerable moments of her life?

O’Brien would most certainly leave, because it was the proper thing to do, but how Cora wished that she would stay.

Against all odds, she did.

Cora could hardly believe her maid’s audacity when she felt a light, hesitant touch on her shoulder. She looked up from her hands. She had to pry them from her face, so strong was the compulsion to hide her shame at all costs, but she knew that she had to give O’Brien some kind of encouragement. Failing to do so would be construed as a silent dismissal, and she couldn’t stand to have her hopes raised only to have them wrecked just as quickly.  

She found her maid kneeling on the floor next to her chair, her eyes wide, brow slightly furrowed – a silent question. 

“I’m tired”, Cora said by way of explanation. “It’s just... I’m so tired of being strong...”

She had meant to sound reassuring, but her voice caught in her throat even as she spoke, more tears spilling from her eyes. And of course, she had lied, without even meaning to.

Part of her wanted to tell O’Brien the truth - that she was afraid that his Lordship could never forgive her for losing the baby, that he didn’t love her anymore, or maybe that he had never truly loved her; that _she_ loved him and was afraid to lose him forever; that she felt so very lonely; that she still hurt over what might have been if only she had minded her step. Instead, Cora had followed her instinct, and her first instinct was always to play by the rules, to evade, to sugar-coat.

O’Brien looked away and said nothing, but a crisply folded handkerchief was pressed into Cora’s hand, which she accepted without thinking. The blanket that O’Brien had put over her legs earlier had slipped off in the heat of the moment, when Cora had reached for her husband. O’Brien picked it up and spread it over her lap, for the third time that day already. Her hands brushed over it, the same way they did when she had spotted a wrinkle on Cora’s dress that demanded smoothing out. Still, her gaze remained downcast.

Cora dabbed at her eyes with the small piece of cloth she had been given, wondering if this, along with the brief squeeze of her shoulder, was all the comfort she could hope to receive from the paragon of professionalism that was her maid.

White cotton with no embroideries, the handkerchief was much plainer than any of her own, but it smelled nice, like freshly washed laundry, with just a hint of a muskier scent underneath. There was something soothing about it, a sense of safety and familiarity that spread through her like the warmth from the blanket in her lap.

Still, it wasn’t nearly enough. And never had Cora wished so hard that she could believe the lies she told. Had O’Brien really been her friend, she would have reached for the kneeling woman, had her sit next to her, and muffled her sobs in the crook of her shoulder.

The polite distance that O’Brien always maintained, which Cora herself used to regard as a pillar of their relationship, suddenly felt like a chasm, as painful as a fresh wound.

On the day of the accident, O’Brien had bridged it for the first time in the ten years she had spent in her service, and now Cora couldn’t help but wish she would do it again, step out of Miss O’Brien’s shoes if only for a moment, and just be Sarah. Not Sarah the housemaid, whose first name was used by anyone and only served to show her lack of status, but Sarah as her family and friends would know her, someone who wouldn’t be walking on eggshells around her, someone who would have a right to care.

Then O’Brien reached out and, echoing Cora’s earlier actions, stroked the back of her hand, her touch so light that Cora barely felt it. The poor woman must have been terrified of overstepping her boundaries, but Cora couldn’t have cared less in that moment, and she caught her hand as it retreated, linking their fingers together.

Just like she had done to Robert as they sat together under the marquee... The thought was almost enough to make her recoil. It may have been hours ago, but it might as well have been years.

“Do you think,” Cora asked, “that it is possible to love someone when they keep on disappointing you at every turn?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this was originally part of a monster chapter that got a bit out of control and didn't want to get split, but then I thought; there is a such a thing as cliffhangers, right? So here you are.


End file.
